The Detective, The Doctor, and The Woman
by sherlockian2205
Summary: Sherlock returns three years after the fall, but with him he brings many surprises and changes...John and Sherlock friendship, Irene/Sherlock, and all other Characters! M for language and references to sex... Lot's of Baring-Gould references too...
1. Chapter 1

Preface

221B Baker Street had remained remarkably unchanged in the three years since the world's only Consulting Detective took the plunge from the roof of St. Barts. Immediately following the suicide of his best friend, John had abandoned the flat and, despite their differences, chose to spend the next months with his sister Harry as he tried to put his life back together.

He had been completely destroyed by the death of his friend and he couldn't bear to be in the flat where the constant reminders of Sherlock were so very prevalent. He was shocked and confused. He knew Sherlock was never a fraud; he had seen the Detective deduce the lives of many from the most insignificant details time and time again. John could not understand why Sherlock would kill himself when he was clearly not a fake.

Mrs. Hudson refused to let anyone else rent the flat, grieving Sherlock nearly as badly as he was and stubbornly insisting that John would return when he was ready. John received the push he needed to return to the place eight months after the fall, when they found the recording.

Due to the confusion, accusations, and grief that Sherlock had left in his wake, there had been little work done to actually investigate the apparent murder-suicide. A deeply sorrowed Greg Lestrade had collected the only piece of evidence from that fateful day on the roof, the phone, but he quickly moved it to storage at the yard and took his time to grieve for his friend before forgetting about the phone for months.

It was only after eight months that he remembered about the phone, and he decided to catalogue the evidence it held and put the case to rest in order to try to move on from Sherlock's death. As he went through it he discovered a voice recording saved in the phone's archives, and that one recording changed the lives of everyone who had every heard of Sherlock Holmes.

Lestrade listened to the recording of Sherlock's conversation on the roof with Moriarty for the first time alone in his office and he was happy he did so in solitude. He was in tears as he heard Sherlock in his deep voice claim Lestrade as a friend worth dying for, and as he learned of the truth behind the Detective's jump he knew one thing was certain; Sherlock Holmes was indeed a _great_ man.

Soon after composing himself he called in a congregation of people to his office. John, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Molly, Donovan, Anderson, and a handful of trusted officers gathered in the small room. Lestrade had ignored all the shouted questions that had come his way upon entering the room and he simply played the recording for everyone to hear. The reactions were as he expected.

When the recording had finished John was sobbing in loud uncontrollable gasps from his chair, muttering expletives and the occasional "That bloody idiot" or "complete arse". Lestrade knew that John uttered the curses with no malicious intent; he was simply grieving for Sherlock all over again, except now John knew that Sherlock had given his life in exchange for those of his closest friends. Mrs. Hudson was shaking and sobbing as she held on to John. Mycroft had pressed his lips into a thin, white line and left in a hurry as soon as the audio ended. Molly followed after him in tears. Donovan sat with wet eyes and her hands over her mouth, finally realizing the extent of her wrongs when in came to the consulting detective. Anderson was along the same lines as were the rest of the officers.

That day gave John the push he needed to move back to Baker Street and the memory of his late friend, much to the delight of a very understanding Mrs. Hudson. He knew that he would never recover and he would be tormented by guilt, but he felt that he owed it to Sherlock to keep the place alive for his memory. He threw away nothing of Sherlock's, save for the remaining body parts and chemical experiments he had found hidden throughout the flat, and he moved the various science equipment in to basement storage of the building. He moved back into his old room and he took up his old job at the surgery where Sarah worked. His life was slowly coming back together after eight dark, grief-filled months. John would never be the same again, his friend's absence assured that, but he was determined the restore some normality to his life for Sherlock's sake. The biggest challenge was when he started helping Scotland Yard on cases again. Without Sherlock, he wasn't much of an advantage, but Lestrade always appreciated the sharp medical observations he could make about the bodies.

As the months went by, John continued with his life. He wasn't as happy as he once was with Sherlock, but he pushed forward and tried his best to move on with his life while always remembering his best friend. It wasn't until two months after the three-year anniversary of Sherlock's death that John's life was up turned once more.


	2. The Return

John, Lestrade, Sally, and Anderson stood huddled around the small kitchen table in 221B, pouring over handfuls of documents from the yard's newest murder case. It was nearly midnight and the group was trying to find any connections between the bodies that had recently turned up. John had long ago accepted the apologies of Sally and Anderson, and they would never be friends, but he appreciated their guilt over their part in Sherlock's death.

"Fuck it, I'm not seeing any bloody similarities between these victims." Exclaimed Lestrade as Mrs. Hudson tutted at him for his language.

"I know sir," replied Sally, "But there has to be something, I mean there can't just be five deaths with the same exact COD and body placement."

Anderson groaned and rubbed his eyes as he flopped down into the chair nearest him.

"Suck it up Anderson, just keep looking. I'll make another pot of tea yeah?" asked John.

"Please do before I fall asleep at the table," replied Anderson.

"Yeah yeah shut it, you've done practically nothing."

"Hey we've been here for over five hours and have yet to find a single fucking lead or connection or, or anything that could useful to us at all in this case!"

"STOP IT," interrupted Lestrade, "Now I know it's stressful and we're all tired and could use a good kip, but lets please just try to focus on the task at hand and not bite each other's heads off!"

John and Anderson mumbled their apologies while Sally smirked at the pair of them. They all worked in silence for the next few minutes, only stopping when the kettle started to whistle. John busied himself with the preparation of the tea while the others took a well-need break from the piles of pictures and papers. John handed out the mugs to the grateful yard employees and sat down in one of the chairs. They all sipped their tea quietly before John's snort broke the silence.

"What?" asked Sally, "Has the lack of sleep finally gotten to you?"

"No, no, just thinking…" John answered with a sad smile on his face, "You know he would have had this thing solved in less than thirty seconds, insulted us all, then started shooting things or experimenting out of boredom. I guess we do fine with the cases most of the time but we really are out of our depth without him aren't we?"

His question was met with the weary chuckles of the others.

"Can't argue with you there mate," muttered Lestrade, "wait, er, hold on a moment, when did Sherlock ever resort to shooting things? Seems a bit dull by his standards doesn't it?"

"Well he'd only steal my gun when he was literally at the height of his boredom. Mrs. Hudson didn't take to kindly to the bullet holes in her wall though, but either way we were both fine with the gun as long as he didn't come home soaked in pig blood…" and John launched comfortably into the story of the morning that had preceded the infamous Baskerville case to the enjoyment of his company. At first it had been hard to share stories about his adventures with Sherlock to others, but as the time went by John had found it easier and easier to reminisce and share anecdotes about Sherlock to others. It was therapeutic in a way.

A pounding on the door cut the group's laughter short

"Who the hell is knocking at this hour," scowled Donovan as John quickly and quietly pulled his gun from the drawer and moved towards the door with it held firmly in front of him. The others quickly followed his lead and positioned themselves, guns out, in from of the door to the flat. John reached a hand out to the door before looking at the others for confirmations. The other three nodded and John lunged forward and swiftly pulled the door open. The sight that met him on the other side was enough to remove any coherent thought process from his head.

"No," John breathed as he barely registered the gasps and exclamations of shock from the others, "No no no, no. It-it can't…"

A very different Sherlock Holmes from the one that John had last seen stood in the doorway. Different, but definitely the same man. He was thinner if that was even possible, wearing a pair of dark ripped jeans, black converse shoes, and only a plain black t-shirt despite the freezing temperature outside. His hair had been cut shorter than John had ever seen it, with only a hint of his curls showing at the ends, and dyed a golden blonde sort of color. John would have laughed at his appearance had it been any other situation, but instead he stood there rooted to the spot, mouth open, staring at his supposedly dead friend. Sherlock gazed back at the group in apparent shock as well.

"Well, I admit I was not expecting an audience for this."

Sherlock's deep baritone broke the complete silence and the frozen group was stirred into action all at once. John's gun clattered to the floor as the other three stumbled back into the armchairs and sofa, too stunned to do much more. John sagged against the wall next to him, never removing his eyes from Sherlock's form.

"You-you're dead… you can't…can't...not possible, I-I took your-your pulse"

"Come now John I believe it is quite obvious that I am not dead as anyone could clearly gather by my walking, breathing body. Rigor mortis is observable mere days after death and given that my death is believed to have occurred-how long is it now-ah yes, over three years ago and my muscles have yet to constrict-"

Sherlock's rambling was cut short as John suddenly flew at him and his fist met Sherlock's face while the others began to shout, their shock broken by his sudden attack.

"YOU BASTARD! YOU UN-FUCKING-BELIEVABLE ARSE-HOLE…STUPID…IDIOTIC, YOU, you…." John screamed into the now bleeding face of the consulting detective as he felt hands pulling him back and voices joining his own.

"Damn it John stop, hold on, of fuck this can't be happening…"

"Of course you wouldn't be dead, I mean you of all people…"

"Why is freak blonde, I don't understand, I, I must be dreaming, what a fucking weird-ass nightmare…"

"HOW-HOW COULD-I…" John was screaming once more at Sherlock remained panting against the wall next to the door, trying to stop the blood pouring from his nose.

"I,I-I don't…" John's shouting became a hoarse whisper, before he violently pulled the detective into a bone-crushing hug and began to sob unrestrainedly into his shoulder. He felt Sherlock go stiff in his arms, but after a few agonizing seconds he felt his friends arms awkwardly lift to his back to return the hug.

"Hello Lestrade. Sally. Anderson," Sherlock said to the group over the shoulder of the weeping doctor, "I hadn't thought that I would see all of you so soon after my return."

Lestrade and the others simply looked flabbergasted.

"Bloody hell Sherlock. How the hell is this possible? Don't get me wrong it's-it's great to see you mate but I've got your fucking death certificate? I saw your bleedin' body!" Lestrade exclaimed running his hands over his face.

"Yes, well, I needed to be believed dead by everyone in order to fool Moriarty's men. I assume you found the recording, and by the lack of handcuffs in either Sally's or Anderson's hands I gather that many know of Jim's false identity in Richard Brook?" Sherlock replied looking over the three of them.

"Of-of course people know freak, we went to the press every fucking paper has been writing about your innocence for over two years? How could you have not known that?" Sally said exasperatedly.

"I haven't exactly been living a life of luxury over the past few years. I've not been connected to current events. And still freak, Sally, really?" Sherlock said with a half-smile towards the woman.

"Yeah, well, call me sentimental I guess," Sally joked, getting over her shock with the situation, "Your hair looks ridiculous by the way."

"Well I couldn't be expected to run around the world dismantling Moriarty's complex organization looking like myself now could I? Really use your brain for just one moment." Sherlock smirked, setting down a seemingly catatonic John down on the couch without much thought.

"So that's what you've been doing then?" Anderson half-screamed, still coming to terms with what was happening, "Traveling about the world?"

"Nice to hear your dulcet tones again Anderson, they were not missed. In the most basic sense yes, but sight-seeing was not on the agenda unfortunately" Sherlock grimaced, "It was… extremely dangerous to say the least. I came close to my true death many more times than I would like to admit."

John's head snapped up at that and he stood up from the couch. He began circling his friend and examining him in for injuries.

"John…" Sherlock began.

"No Sherlock stop. I'm pissed and we'll talk later, but right now I just want to help you. You're hurt." John said bluntly.

"No, I'm-" Sherlock tried to speak again but was cut off by John once more.

"Shut up, just, just be quiet for now."

Lestrade, Sally, and Anderson looked on with expressions somewhere between worry and amusement before John began to bark orders at them to collect his medical supplies. When they returned with what John needed he began to examine his friend more closely. He was favoring his left leg and holding his right arm tenderly across his chest. He had multiple bruises and cuts across his arms that John was sure continued onto his chest and back. There were at least two deep gashes on his cheek that would require stitching and his bright blue eyes looked like they hadn't seen the backs of his eyelids in weeks.

He directed a protesting Sherlock onto the couch before speaking to him.

"Take off your shirt."

"What? Why? John I don't need-" Sherlock started to reply.

"Now Sherlock, or I will sedate you!" John ordered.

Sherlocked shrugged out of his t-shirt mumbling and complaining under his breatht the whole time. When he finally got it off he heard Sally give a slight gasp and both Lestrade and Anderson curse softly. His chest was covered in a mottling of different bruises, cuts, and burns.

John looked him over once again before spouting information off to the others at rapid pace.

"Alright he's got at least four broken ribs, two of which will definitely need to be set in order to prevent the bone from puncturing a lung. I really can't do anything for the burns and bruises on his chest aside from medication, but giving his past history with addiction he'll only be able to take week pain-killers which is not ideal but it will do. Most of the cuts just need to be cleaned and bandaged but those two on his face need to be properly stitched up. Probably has a sprained ankle based on the way he's favoring the other foot but not too extremely, and I am 95 percent sure that his wrist is broken."

Sherlock stared at John as he rattled of the medical information to the others at top speed before interrupting.

"I am right here you-"

"Shut up," John said to Sherlock cutting him off before turning to the others, "Alright, let's get started…"


	3. Conversations and stitches

Chapter 2

"So, why now?" John asked testily as he stitched up the rather large gash on Sherlock's forehead. Lestrade had to hold the detective's head still as John worked due to the fact that Sherlock had refused to sit still and be treated.

"I fail to understand what you mean John," answered Sherlock with an annoyed look on his face. He clearly did not like being manhandled by his two friends while Sally and Anderson looked on in amusement. He flinched when John gave a sharp tug with the needle.

"What I _mean _Sherlock, is why have you back now as opposed to before? What has changed?' John tied the last stitch, pleased with his work, and he gestured to Lestrade that it was ok to release his hold on his friend.

"Everything has changed," replied Sherlock as he made to feel the stitches, only to have his hands slapped away by Lestrade. He sent a glare towards the man before speaking further, "The last string has been severed. Moriarty's vast web has been dissolved and his empire has ceased to exist."

Lestrade whistled under his breath as Sally spoke,

"What are you saying? How can such a complex organization end just like that?"

"Simple. It ends when the last branch has been eliminated."

"What last branch and what do you mean by eliminated?" asked Anderson.

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes at the officer before answering,

"The last branch was one Sebastian Moran, right hand of Moriarty, and he was eliminated when I shot him three days ago."

The others stared at him in shock. Sally and Anderson looked slightly horrified, Lestrade seemed resigned, and John was suddenly up and pacing about the room, a new kind of panic rising in his chest. He had just gotten his best friend back, albeit a little worse for wear and blonde, but his best friend all the same, and now John had to face the possibility that he would lose Sherlock again.

"Sherlock you need to leave now!' exclaimed John as he ran his hands through his hair in distress, "They'll lock you away, it doesn't matter if you killed a criminal or not they don't take kindly to vigilantes. Do you need money? Clothes? Quick Lestrade, Sally, Anderson empty your pockets if we pool our resources we can put him on the first-"

"John," interrupted Sherlock with an amused look on his face, "Everything has been taken care of."

"What? Sherlock no, what are you say- oh, of course. THAT BASTARD," and suddenly John's panic was replaced by anger. "I'm going to KILL HIM!"

"As pleased as I am that you finally share my sentiments regarding him John, it would be much easier to us all if he were kept alive," Sherlock said, enjoying the reaction and the angry muttering coming from his friend.

"AGH, just agh. He watched me cry over your tombstone and he knew this WHOLE. BLOODY. TIME!" John ended his sentence by kicking the armchair closest to him. Sherlock's amusement disappeared as he heard the last remark from his friend. He had known that his death would affect John badly and he regretted what he had done, but it was necessary to ensure the protection of his friends. He raised him uninjured arm to run through his hair as he thought about John, still unfamiliar with the short haircut. He had changed his appearance so frequently over the years since his "death" that he hardly recognized himself when he looked in the mirror anymore. At least he was blond again though. The shade did seem to suit his coloring more than the ginger. That had been bad for everyone.

Sherlock's inner thoughts were interrupted when Lestrade coughed and began to speak.

"So wait, hold on," he said as he looked between Sherlock and the still pacing doctor, "What's going on here? I think we're missing something important in this conversation."

Sally and Anderson murmured their agreement.

"Mycroft," John all but spat.

"Oh right, yes, I see." Lestrade said as understanding passed over his features, "So he knew you were alive the whole time? Bit cold even for him though isn't it?"

Sherlock snorted, "You have no idea of what he's capable of. He would murder the citizens of an entire country before he missed a brunch with one of his minister friends."

"Who is this Mycroft guy? And how do you three know him? I'm still confused!" Sally shrieked before Lestrade turned to give her his attention.

"Sherlock's brother."

"Freak has a brother? Is he as bad as you or worse?" Sally asked now turning to the blond detective who still occupied the couch.

"Mycroft is easily more intelligent than I am and indefinitely more cruel, but he chooses to spend his time and talent navigating through the political world from behind a desk. Lazy git." Sherlock muttered.

"Your brother works in the government?" asked Anderson.

"He is the government."

Sherlock threw his head against the back of the couch and threw his uninjured arm over his eyes dramatically. It was silent for a moment before the sound of a phone vibrating caught everyone's attention.

Sherlock pulled a phone out of his pant's pocket with some difficulty before looking at the screen. His face broke out into a wry smile.

"Speak of the devil and he shall appear."

"IT"S HIM?" shouted John as he made his way over to the couch quickly and attempted to grab the phone from Sherlock's hands.

"John, no, go away, it's mine-"

"Sherlock give me the damn phone I want to speak with him-"

"Let go John-"

"BOYS," Lestrade shouted at the two men struggling on the couch as Sally and Anderson smothered their laughter behind him. "John, Sherlock is still seriously injured be careful, now if both of you would kindly act your ages for once so we can get back to the matter at hand."

John quickly detangled himself from Sherlock, having the decency to look shameful, and began checking over his injuries once again as the detective pouted with his arms crossed over his chest.

"So?'

"So what Lestrade? Is that your horrible attempt to start a conversation, and if it was-"

"Shut up," Lestrade cut the detective off, "What did Mycroft say Sherlock?"

"Ah yes, her Majesty. He seems to think I require further medical attention but I've already told him that I have a perfectly satisfactory doctor in my company."

John's head snapped toward him, "What? No Sherlock. I'm choosing to ignore that satisfactory part for now, but you need to see a doctor with proper medical equipment. You need your ribs to be set and you need a cast on that wrist as well as an x-ray of your ankle. I can't provide that and you know Mycroft can without a trip to the hospital, which I know you would like to miss."

"I'm fine, John-"

"No, you're not. Now please Sherlock, do this for me, for everyone actually. All of us were affected over the last three years." John looked beseechingly towards Sherlock.

Sherlock stared back for a moment before slumping back into the couch looking defeated.

"Fine," whispered Sherlock staring at the floor. He picked up the phone and quickly shot off a text to his brother. The reply was almost instantaneous.

"A car will be here within five minutes," Sherlock announced as he stood quickly, swaying for a moment before John reached out to steady him, "But Mycroft says that none of you are to leave during the time I'm gone."

The others immediately made their disagreement with the situation known.

"No way, I'm coming with you. You can't leave again-"

"It's three in the morning I know you don't sleep but some of us do-"

"I have to be at the Yard first thing in the morning-"

"Like hell I am freak, you listen here-"

Sherlock cut them all off with a raised hand.

"Mycroft insists that you four are to remain in the flat until he returns with me in a few hours. It is of utmost importance that my return remains a secret for the time being and he needs to brief you all to ensure that my actions in foreign countries are dealt with delicately and accordingly," He spoke rapidly and harshly. He looked at John before adding in a quieter tone, "And I will return within a few hours max. I-I promise."

John met his stare with a hard glare for a few moments, but upon hearing Sherlock's last utterance, his face softened and he nodded. The others groaned at this. One by one the four sank back into their seats around the room.

Sherlock gave his friend a small smile.

"Thank you, I will try to be as quick as possible," he said as he walked out of the door, "And remember, he will know if you try to leave!"

The others groaned once again as they listened to his receding footfalls on the staircase and then the opening and closing of the front door.


	4. Brothers

Chapter 3

** Thanks so much KrissM3 for your reviews! It's my first time writing a fanfic and it was really encouraging to get your reviews! I think I'm improving already and I think you'll be much happier with this chapter!**

It was nearly five hours later when Sherlock walked back into the flat. John, Lestrade, Sally, and Anderson all snapped awake from their uncomfortable sleeping positions when they heard Sherlock bound into the flat. John rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he heard the others stirring and stretching around him. Sherlock had gone into the kitchen immediately and John could hear him banging the cabinets as he moved about.

"Argh, bloody hell what time is it," questioned Lestrade as he stretched his arms behind his back, his joints making audible popping and cracking sounds, "I'm too old to spend a night upright, ah Sherlock your back"

Sherlock had walked back into the living room with a scowl on his face and the others took the site of him in.

His hair was once again his trademark coal color and it was reassuring to see him looking more like himself again. He was still in the clothing he had shown up in the night before, the only difference being his black t-shirt that had been cut up the side, presumably by the doctor that Mycroft had called in, revealing thick white bandages that wound around much of his pale torso. He looked to be having some difficulty breathing due to the constricting bandages, but he was obviously able to hold himself straighter than he had been the night before because of them. A bulky off-white cast covered his injured arm from hand to elbow and this seemed to be what was causing him so much agitation. The scowl on his face combined with the ripped shirt, stitched wounds, and cast created the look of an utter madman.

"John, where is the bone saw?" Sherlock asked urgently.

"It's in storage along with most of your other equipment. Wait, why do you want it?"

Sherlock gave his friend a dubious look, "Are you seriously that dense John? Look at this!" He half-screamed, waving his casted arm around wildly in the air, "I can't work with this on, it's impeding my ability to _think_ John, I have to get it off now!"

He moved towards the door once more, his limp noticeably better, before John sprang in front of him, effectively blocking his way.

"Sherlock there is no way in hell that I am going to let you attempt to saw that off your arm. Even if you got the cast off without accidentally amputating a limb, your arm would never heal right!" John shouted at him exasperatedly.

Sherlock huffed and dropped down to the couch next to a still half-asleep Anderson, who flinched and scooted away from the sulking detective.

John sighed with relief. He wasn't up to a fight with Sherlock so early in the morning and he was just happy that he had given in so easily.

Lestrade looked Sherlock over cautiously, "Come on Sherlock, with the amount of trouble you get in you can't tell me that you've never had to have a cast before. It's not that bad. At least you don't have one that goes above your elbow. Then you'd have to wear a sling!"

Sherlock looked moderately more pleased at that thought.

"Actually I usually reset the bones myself if the need arises and then wait out the healing process. I did have a cast once before now that you mention it, same arm too. Fell out of a tree after my eighth birthday. Couldn't stand the thing then either, so I took a steak knife to it in the middle of the night. Needless to say father wasn't pleased when-"

"So it went all right then yeah?" John cut him off.

"That depends entirely on whose opinion of "all right" you are using as a reference John," Sherlock was sulking once more, "The doctor was a complete moron, he even tried to get me to wear one of those god awful boots for my foot. Obviously I wouldn't allow it. Mycroft fought me over it but I won in the end."

John smiled at his friend, happy with the way their banter had returned so easily and naturally.

"Let me guess, you suffered the poor man's administrations all the while insulting his medical ability and outing the multiple affairs his wife has been having?"

Sherlock sniffed, "Don't be ridiculous John. Although I did inform him of his teenage daughter's promiscuous encounters with men twice her age. Quite unsavory really."

John snorted and before he knew it he was laughing all out. Tears were streaming down his face and he grasped his sides as he tried to control himself. He knew the others were looking at him concernedly but he couldn't find it in himself to care one bit. All he cared about was the fact that he hadn't laughed, really laughed like this, since his friend had "died" and it felt bloody amazing. For the first time since Sherlock returned hours before, John truly allowed himself to relax and realize that his best friend was back. He had never felt more joyful or relieved in his life. He hated to be cliché but it truly felt as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

Once he had composed himself and wiped his eyes he met the confused stare of his best friend.

"Your hair's back to normal then?"

Sherlock smiled, though still slightly concerned by John's outburst, before replying, "Mycroft keeps an extraordinary diverse staff on hand, even at five in the morning."

"You looked weird before."

"You should have seen me as a ginger."

This comment sent John into another round of hysterics and this time the yard employees slowly joined in too. There was something so uplifting about seeing John act this way, especially to Lestrade. Sure John had managed to move on with his life after the fall, but there was always that gaping hole left by Sherlock that was obvious whenever John had turned to his side after asking a question or making a remark. Lestrade had seen John at his worst and he was happy to see the man acting so much like his old, caring self again. It was almost as if two people had returned instead of one. He tuned back into the conversation, realizing that he had drifted away for a minute.

"I've got to see a picture of that freak."

"Sally I can promise you that all evidence has been completely eradicate-"

Sherlock suddenly stopped speaking as the door to the flat banged open so hard that it bounced off the wall and a cold voice rang through the room.

"WILLIAM SHERLOCK SCOTT HOLMES," Mycroft Holmes stood perfectly dressed with umbrella in hand fuming in the doorway.

"That's your full name and you go by Sherlock, seriously?" Lestrade threw towards the detective.

Mycroft strode into the flat purposefully and stopped in front of the now smirking Sherlock on the couch.

"How dare you make a mockery of myself and my staff. Refusing the walking boot is one thing but escaping through the third story window and reducing my associate to a driveling mess is another. I can't believe you would…"

Mycroft continued on with his wrath filled rant towards Sherlock while the others stood in the background, t0o shell-shocked by his sudden presence to move.

"So..uh…that's the brother then?" asked Sally quietly.

"That'd be him," answered Lestrade.

Anderson swallowed, "He's quite…uh…quite-"

"Terrifying?" supplied John, a corner of his mouth turning up, as he watched Mycroft berate his younger brother, "Nah you get used to it. He kidnapped me the first time we met and offered me money to spy on Sherlock for him. Surprisingly our encounters only became more tame after that."

Lestrade snorted at John's comment. He hastily tried to turn it into a cough but the damage was done. Mycroft whipped around to stare at the small congregation of people in front of the fireplace. His face changed immediately from an expression of fury into the calm, emotionless mask he usually wore.

"Ah Detective Inspector so nice to see you again. It has been a while hasn't it. Sergeant Donovan, I presume? And Anderson is it?"

The three nodded to him, Lestrade more comfortably than the other two.

Sherlock's voice came from the couch, "Don't pretend that you don't know everything about their lives Mycroft. Your attempt at normality is quite unnerving."

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Yes but some of us try to remain cordial to others despite our massive intellects. Being sociable is not a sin Sherlock. I believe autistic was the term that all the doctors used when you were little was it not?"

Sherlock scowled rubbing his hands through his once again ebony locks, "Ugh. Dull. Austistic conditions are characterized by difficulty in communicating and forming relationships with other people and in using language and abstract concepts. I do not lack the ability to socialize with others, I choose not to. No it's not a sin, but last time I check gluttony was and that doesn't seem to slow you down does it Mycroft?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes at his once again smirking younger brother before turning to John.

"Dr. Watson." He said tersely.

John clenched and unclenched his fists by his side as he glared at the much taller man.

"I'd really like nothing more than to hit you right now Mycroft, but seeing as I've already punched one Holmes today I'll try to refrain."

"Yes I had noticed your assault on Sherlock," Mycroft smiled, "Not that I'd fault you of course. I understand that you are angry with me, but let me assure you, I only acted in the way that was absolutely necessary to ensure the protection of the individuals in danger, yourself and our Detective Inspector here included."

Sherlock sighed from where he was still relaxed on the couch in his destroyed shirt, his casted arm held awkwardly in his lap and his bright blue eyes on the ceiling.

"You know he's right John."

"I-I know," breathed John moving to sit beside his friend on the couch, the others falling into the other seats, "It's just hard knowing that I suffered for three years, thinking that you had jumped to give your life for mine, when he knew you were alive all along."

Mycroft cleared his throat from the armchair he sat in with his hands folded over his precious umbrella. Anderson sat in the chair to his left, still looking shocked by everything that had happened and trying to put as much distance in between himself and Mycroft as he could. Sally just looked tired in the other chair and Lestrade seemed relieved from his place on the floor.

"I do apologize Dr. Watson. Had it been any other way you would have been informed immediately."

Sherlock nodded in agreement with his brother for once.

"It was the safest way."

The group settled into silence each pondering their own thoughts.

John was just content to revel in the fact that his best friend was back and his life had come back together in a span of less than eight hours. Now that Sherlock was back, he didn't understand how he had ever lived without him. He wasn't romantically attracted to Sherlock despite the beliefs of many people, but at this point his friend was the most important person in the doctor's life. He didn't want to think about where he'd be right now if he hadn't happened to walk by Mike Stamford in the park that day. He was still angry with the two brothers for keeping this from him, but his happiness dissolved his anger and the rational part of his brain told him that they spoke the truth when they said that this situation had been the only option.

Sally sat in the chair closest to the dying embers of the fire but she remained staring at the freak. She still called him freak but there was nothing malicious behind it now. Sherlock Holmes had proven himself to her when he "died" to keep his friends safe, and even if he hadn't actually died, the sentiment was the same. Sally would never be able to hold the animosity towards him that she once displayed. She would never say it out loud but looking at the detective now, she felt almost protective of him. He was covered in reminders of the toll these past years had taken on him and the challenges he faced in order to rid the world of Moriarty's empire. He sat slumped in on himself on the couch with a pensive look on his face and it was the most vulnerable she had ever seen him. That look combined with his closely cropped hair, now black once again, made him look younger than he ever had before. Sure Sally had met him in his mid-twenties during the midst of his drug days, when he would come to crime scenes high as a kite, but even then he had seemed to possess the air of an older man about him. Now he just seemed lost and young; for the first time Sally realized that he was almost the same age that she was.

Anderson didn't know what to make of this hellish situation. He was stuck sitting next to a man who could have him assassinated with a single text and that man happened to be related to one of the biggest arse-holes in the world. Holmes might have gained his respect by doing what he did for his friends, but he wasn't going to pretend for one second that the man wasn't still a dick. He would never be a friend to Sherlock Holmes, but he would never hate him like he once did. Anderson had to agree with Lestrade. Holmes was a great and good man, but he still was a dick.

Lestrade would never say it out loud for fear of how Sherlock would react, but he had started to consider the young man on the couch to be something like a son to him. He wasn't being overly sentimental, but he had helped Sherlock through his drug stage and the detox that followed. He was Sherlock's only acquaintance for years before John and although he never though that Sherlock would feel the same way before he heard the recording, he considered the younger man to be a friend. It was both horrible and gratifying to hear that Sherlock returned the sentiment, and although he may never have considered Lestrade as anything more, Sherlock had been the closest thing to a son that Lestrade had. He had ben destroyed by his death. Now that he was back and weak and injured, Lestrade wanted nothing more than to lock him up and never let the man he considered a son to leave his sight again.

Mycroft observed his injured brother slumped on the couch. His baby brother who had been badly hurt taking down the last leg of the Moriarty organization. If Sherlock hadn't killed Moran, Mycroft would have found him and strangled the man himself for the injuries he inflicted on Sherlock. Sherlock was the only thing Mycroft had, and although he didn't outwardly show it, he was fiercely protective of him. Seven years is a big gap in ages between siblings and it had always fallen to Mycroft to take care of Sherlock when they were children. He taught him to hone his deductive skills and use them, but he would always regret his part in molding Sherlock into the sociopath that he was today. Caring might be a disadvantage, but Mycroft cared immensely for his younger brother.

The five occupants of the room were suddenly shaken from their thoughts as a noise permeated the silence. A noise that only held significance to two of the people in the room. A noise that undoubtedly, would cause one of the occupants to explode in a fit of rage or contemplate committing fratricide.

Sherlock went rigid in his seat and his wide eyes met John's as a throaty moan emitted from the phone in his pocket.

**Next chapter will feature the return of one Miss Irene Adler, and a new character as well. One that will be integral to this story.**

**Thanks for reading, I'm trying to improve so any helpful suggestions would be very welcome!**


	5. Admissions

Chapter 4

**Hi, just so you know I'm basing this off Baring-Gould's biography of Sherlock Holmes, and you will see more references to his work in future chapters. That is why I used that name for Sherlock in the last chapter!**

"John-" Sherlock began before his voice was cut off by remarks from the others.

"God Sherlock you still use that tone-"

"What the hell freak-"

"Where'd you get that noise from-"

Sherlock ignored their questions and instead focused his attention on the two people in the room beside himself that weren't speaking. Mycroft was giving him a shrewd, calculating look over his folded hands and John was staring at the detective without abandon; mouth wide open and his face unresponsive. Sherlock tried to implore his friend with his gaze to remain quiet, but he could see that John was far too shocked to take notice of Sherlock's attempt.

The yard members quieted down when they noticed the silence that had fallen amongst the three men that were staring at each other. John blinked but still remained silent, his mind shut down as he found himself gaping unabashedly for what seemed like the tenth time that day. He knew that moan and he knew what it signified, but shock clouded his mind and he was having trouble trying to make sense of everything in his head at the moment.

Sherlock opened his mouth once more, trying to ignore Mycroft's presence.

"John," he said, "Think very carefully about the consequences of your next actions in the following-"

"Sherlock," John said very suddenly and very loudly compared to the detective's even voice, "That, that can't be possible. You _know _that it's not possible, but, but, why aren't you surprised? You...unless…_oh_"

John's slammed his mouth shut violently, realization suddenly dawning over his features. Sherlock knew then that his friend really _did_ understand the current situation, but he also knew that John was still too overwhelmed to bother restricting information from coming out of his mouth. Sherlock stayed silent and observed the doctor with his hands touching under his chin, the cast on his arm causing some difficulties. He could still feel Mycroft's gaze on him, trying to deduce the data that he was missing.

Lestrade had finally had enough of the creepy gazes and the lengthy pauses.

"When you've all finished playing your mind games and having your silent conversations with each other, it'd be greatly appreciated if you could fill us in so we don't look like idiots."

"You are idiots," Sherlock shot at him quickly, never taking his eyes off of John.

Lestrade ignored him.

"Why the hell did that, that noise just change the whole mood in the room? What does it mean?"

John spoke then, but instead of addressing Lestrade he turned towards the chair that Mycroft sat in and spoke in a monotone voice with a blank look in his eyes.

"It would take Sherlock Holmes himself to fool me."

Sherlock closed his eyes for only a moment before he heard Mycroft stand violently. When he opened his eyes he was met by the sight of Mycroft towering over him and the couch, a look of pure unbridled fury upon his once calm face.

"_You didn't_," he hissed at his brother," Even you wouldn't have been that stupid."

Sherlock gave no response but his mind briefly went over the possible situations in which an umbrella could be used as a murder weapon. John still sat shocked in his chair and the other three stared at the two brothers with varying degrees of confusion.

The whole room was spurred into motion in less than a second as Mycroft lunged towards his brother with what looked like the intention to strangle him. John managed to grab Mycroft's suit jacket just before he made contact with the detective, Sally overturned her chair in her haste to get up, Lestrade and Anderson moved forwards to help John with the struggling politician, and Sherlock let out an uncharacteristic yelp as he leapt out of the way of his brother's outstretched hands.

He observed his brother from where he now stood on the couch with some amusement. Never before had Sherlock seen his brother loose control like this and it pleased him immensely.

"Really Mycroft what would mummy say if she knew that you were trying to kill her favorite son," he said in a mocking tone.

Mycroft stopped struggling at that comment and he seemed to realize the situation he was currently in. He shook the others hands off of him and sat back in his previous seat, trying his hardest to keep the look of embarrassment from touching his features. The others slowly sat down again as well, now that the threat seemed to be subdued. Sherlock remained standing on the couch with a very pleased look on his face. Mycroft glared up at him.

"How can you smirk after what you have done? That woman brought the country to its knees and would have had no qualms about destroying the nation, and you, you foolish man! Look what sentiment has done to you, sentiment that you know she will never return. She's already played you once Sherlock, don't let her fool you again." Mycroft was breathing heavily as he finished, partly from his earlier attempt to strangle his younger brother and partly from the vehemence with which he spoke.

Sherlock now looked at him through narrowed eyes, "I wouldn't be so sure of that Mycroft."

Lestrade, Sally, and Anderson looked even more confused now than they had before. John had his head in his hands and Sherlock was still standing on the couch.

"Right so, who are we talking about now?" asked Anderson bravely, his voice still slightly shaking though. It was John you answered him.

"Irene Adler," he said quietly.

Mycroft issued a slew of profanities under his breath as Lestrade's eyes widened.

"The con-woman? She was all over the papers a few years ago. Involved in that huge scandal yeah?" he questioned.

"The fit dominatrix?" intoned Anderson as he received a glare from Sherlock. What was that about?

"The very same," sneered Mycroft.

"What ever happened to her? Disappeared quickly after the double affair right?" asked Sally.

"That was due to the fact that she began working with the late James Moriarty, which didn't bode well for her. She was declared dead after a terrorist subdivision beheaded her in Karachi. I handled the business myself. But_ apparently_," Mycroft sneered as he looked at his brother once more, "Sherlock took it upon himself to play the part of the white knight and help the woman escape, carefully faking her death as she ran I imagine."

Sherlock lowered himself down onto the couch, smirking once more, "Correct."

John groaned, his head still in his hands, as Lestrade and the other two yard members were rapidly opening and closing their mouths.

"So let me get this straight," Lestrade began slowly as he stared at the consulting detective, still in his tattered clothing, "You went to the middle east to save a woman who worked for the man who almost succeeded in killing you and destroying your reputation?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Yes Lestrade, haven't you been listening?"

"But why?!"

Sherlock ignored him and stared at the ceiling as if trying to catalogue the hundreds of imperfections that it bore. He absently picked up a pencil from the table and stuck it into his cast to scratch his arm.

John picked his head up from his hands, "Please tell me you haven't been involved with her since then."

"I haven't been involved with her since then."

"Oh thank god, " John breathed before he caught Sherlock's slight smile, "Oh come on Sherlock! You know she's not good for you! Those few months were…were… awful to say the least."

Sherlock threw the pencil lightly at Mycroft, who made an impatient noise, before giving his full attention to John, "Am I a teenager now John? Are you going to ban me from ever seeing her again?" he said, amusement coloring his voice.

John stared back at his friend, "Don't patronize me Sherlock, I know I could never stop you from doing something. But what are we talking about here? How often have you seen her?"

"We've…met up occasionally since I helped her create a new identity in Munich. There was something that she required my…assistance with," Sherlock admitted begrudgingly as he leaned his head onto the back of the couch. A sudden smile graced his face, "We had dinner many times,"

John began to splutter.

Sally and Anderson exchanged a glance. They never thought that Sherlock Holmes would ever be involved with a woman, much less romantically involved like the case now seemed. They may have wanted to leave the flat before but now there was no way in hell they were leaving. This was the first time that the two had ever seen the detective acting and looking so _human_. Between the injuries, the childish fighting with his brother, and the fact that he took the time to help a woman in trouble, Sherlock Holmes was starting to seem a lot less like a machine. He was obviously still a sociopath, that couldn't be changed, but it was different to see him interact with the few people he connected to, and apparently this Irene woman was one of them.

Mycroft shook his head as if to clear his thoughts, "Yes well the association ends now." He said harshly, "Ms. Adler will be brought back to London and held accountable for her crimes. It is pointless to fight me on this Sherlock."

Sherlock was suddenly standing up facing his brother, his face cold, "I think you should wait before you make any decisions."

"And why is that?"

"You are missing vital information."

"It matters not to me Sherlock," Mycroft waved a hand as if to dismiss his brother, "Nothing can change my mind in the matter. No one, including you, will be seeing Ms. Adler for a very long time."

Sherlock was fidgeting, clenching his uninjured hand. It seemed as though he was fighting an internal battle and John looked at him worriedly.

"I-" Sherlock closed his mouth abruptly as if he didn't know why he had spoken, "Mycroft. _Please_."

The last whispered plea caught everyone's attention and they all stared dumbfounded at Sherlock. He never apologized to anyone, much less Mycroft, and now he seemed to be begging his older brother for something.

"What's going on Sherlock?" John sounded perplexed as he stared at his clearly conflicted friend, "Why are you fighting Mycroft on this?"

Sherlock continued to stare beseechingly at his brother, "She needs to be protected. She has something of mine that could be considered a weakness on my part. Moriarty may be gone but there will always be criminals bent on eliminating me."

The others were still staring at him in shock. Besides John and Mycroft this was the most emotion that they had ever seen the detective showcase.

"Sherlock I fail to understand," Mycroft shook his head looking at his distressed brother, "What could be so important that it would merit a pardon on the behalf of Ms. Adler. I know you have trivial affections for the woman but you wouldn't let those stand in the way."

"Its more than that," grunted Sherlock who finally broke his stare on his brother and returned to his seat on the couch, "You will understand soon."

Mycroft looked flabbergasted, "And why is that?"

"Irene will be here any moment."

No one spoke for at least thirty seconds, everyone unsure how to respond. Mycroft let out a defeated sigh.

"I'm assuming that was her who texted you earlier?" Sherlock only nodded to this, "Why is she coming here?"

"I told her to of course," answered Sherlock quickly, "Now that it is safe for me to return I feel that it would be most beneficial to have her here with me as well."

"And you're entirely certain that this new information, this weakness will make her past crimes admissible in my eyes?"

"Completely."

They all were silent for a moment before the sound of the door to the building opening reached their ears. Sherlock went rigid as he heard the footfalls on the stairway. He was uncertain as to how the others would respond to this new…development…in his life.

The occupants of the room waited with baited breath, no one daring to move, as the footsteps stopped at the stop of the stairs. The doorknob began to slowly turn and the door swung inward on its hinges.

A slender woman stood in the doorway. She was wearing a formfitting white dress that ended a few inches above her knees and dangerous looking heels. Her dark, chocolate brown hair was in loose waves down her back. Her dark blue eyes sparkled as she took in the shocked looks on the people in the room and her ruby-red painted lips quirked up in a teasing smile. She was stunningly attractive to any observer but her beauty wasn't the thing that made the occupants of the room, besides Sherlock of course, suck in their breath. That would be the dark haired child that she held on her hip.

**Thanks! Feel free to review but it's up to you!**


	6. Introductions

**Chapter 5**

** I don't own the story or any of these characters unfortunately!**

Irene dragged her eyes over the small group of people until they fell on Sherlock's form and a grimace took over her face as she saw his cut up face and the cast on his arm. Sherlock simply smiled back at her.

The others in the room were all staring in shock at the sleeping child in Irene's arms.

Irene dropped the large bag that she was carrying on one shoulder next to the door and made her way across the room to where Sherlock was sitting. He stood to meet her and for a moment they just stood there, Sherlock towering over Irene, observing each other.

Irene raised a hand to his cheek and his eyes closed briefly before snapping back open at the sound of her voice.

"Moran put up more of a fight than you were expecting did he?" Irene asked as she quirked one eyebrow, "Now Sherlock, you know that I'm the only one who gets to inflict wounds on you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at her suggestive comment as Anderson suddenly went into a coughing fit in the background. He leaned down to brush his lips against hers briefly but she immediately deepened the kiss and grasped his tattered shirt tightly. He pulled back with some difficulty before giving her a look of warning.

"Spoilsport," Irene huffed, "I haven't seen you in days and your current state of undress is doing me wonders. You know I can hardly control myself."

She sauntered out of the room and returned a few moments later without the sleeping child. Sherlock gazed at her questioningly, to which she responded by laying a soothing hand on his arm.

"I just put him down in your bed to finish his nap. He will be absolutely delighted to see you when he wakes up but let him sleep for know. He's been a nightmare for the last week without you there."

Sherlock sighed and sat back down on the couch. Irene followed suit and began to examine his injuries in a more serious light. She took a hold of his casted arm and huffed.

"Well this will certainly get in the way later, or maybe we can get creative with it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes once again but a small smirk pulled at his lips. She put down his arm and ran a hand through his short hair. "At least your hair is black again. Much better."

Sherlock leaned his head into her hand as she continued to play with his hair, ignoring the still silent and shocked people in the room. They all watched the two interact. Anderson's mouth was hanging open as he stared them down. In what world was it fair that Sherlock bloody Holmes got a woman that looked like that and he was stuck with his boring wife. Granted he did have Sally to entertain him sometimes but she wasn't much better. This woman, Irene, was in a completely different league. If only his wife looked more like her then-

His thoughts were cut off by Sherlock's voice.

"Stop right there Anderson, its not going to happen," he didn't even bother to open his eyes.

"What? How'd you know?" Anderson spluttered.

"Please, I could hear you thinking from across the room."

Anderson crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the detective.

"It's not fair that a right bastard like you gets a bird like that."

Irene whipped around to face the man and he instinctively sunk lower in his chair. She smirked at his reaction and rested her hand on Sherlock's chest.

"And who should I be with then?" she intoned, "Someone like you? No, much too dull. I need to be stimulated, in many ways actually. A normal man such as your self can't do that for me, but Sherlock can. And lets not forget that brainy is the new sexy after all."

John got over his shock and began to chuckle, remembering the first time he had heard Irene say that. Even then he had known that there was something between the two. They had matched each other on many different levels, and for two people who had never been challenged before it was invigorating.

"It's-er-good to see you again I guess Irene."

"You as well Doctor Watson, and such a heart-warming greeting too." She was smiling at him, clearly enjoying the fact that she was making him uncomfortable. After a few moments she turned her attention to Mycroft, who still had yet to say anything. He was staring at her stonily, not even blinking. Sherlock smirked, knowing that Irene was going to enjoy taunting his brother, and Irene began to speak.

"How have you been Mycroft dear? Any problems with the royal family since I've been gone? It's a pity I haven't been here to misbehave."

Mycroft grimaced, "Charming as always Ms. Adler. What have you gotten Sherlock into now?"

Lestrade spoke up, "A relationship by the look of it."

Sherlock stared at him as if he had suddenly sprouted an extra head.

"I don't do relationships Lestrade. You know that. Much too mundane," he sneered at the last word.

"Well then what do you call this?" The DI asked, motioning with his hands to Irene.

"Why do we have to call it anything Inspector?" asked Irene, "We are perfectly happy with the way it is. No need to sully it with some pointless label." Sherlock grunted in agreement.

The room lapsed back into silence once more.

Sally suddenly started, "So, are we just going to ignore the baby sleeping in the other room?"

Sherlock responded.

"He's not a _baby. _He just turned two last month."

"It doesn't matter what age it is why is it here?"

Sherlock looked at her as if she suffered from some mental disability.

"Surely you can figure out the answer to that question Sally. It's quite transparent if you would simply use your brain to observe what lays right before your eyes."

The unusually quiet Mycroft spoke once again, "Yes, quite unfortunately. I don't approve of what you have done here Sherlock, but I now see the importance of Ms. Adler's presence." He was frowning but it looked as though he had come to a conclusion.

John and the yard members just stared at Sherlock as the meaning of Mycroft's words sunk in. John was the first to speak.

"Just so we're clear. That's-that's your kid Sherlock?" John's eyes were wide and confused as if he couldn't fully grasp the concept. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Yes John."

"Blimey Sherlock. You. A father?" Lestrade stared at him disbelievingly.

"That's not possible," muttered Anderson.

"Oh I assure you it is, Anderson was it? And I think I would know. I did help in the creation process." Sherlock chuckled at Irene's comment. The others, save Mycroft who remained as still as a stone, fidgeted uncomfortably. They had never seen Sherlock pay any attention to a woman, and here he was fully interacting with a very attractive one.

John shook his head, "This-this is weird," he waved his arms around in the arm, "I never thought I'd see the day that you became a father Sherlock, much less before me."

Sherlock gave his friend a calculating look, "Yes well, sometimes things don't go according to plan." He moved to drape his casted arm over Irene's shoulder, but she quickly pushed it off with a glare at Sherlock. Lestrade chuckled at the spectacle that was Sherlock Holmes acting in a seemingly normal, affection way towards a woman. Sherlock stared at Irene with a disgruntled look and she rolled her eyes at him in return before pulling him sideways so that his head rested in her lap. She absently started to play with his hair, ignored the incredulous looks form the others, before turning to John as he spoke once more.

"So the kid wasn't planned?"

"Of course not John," Sherlock said from his spot in Irene's lap, "Do either of us seem like the type that would harbor secret wishes to have a child?

"No, no definitely not, but you've got one now and he looked to be in one piece. You must be caring for him appropriately."

"He is my son John," the word sounded weird coming from Sherlock's mouth," We might not have planned for his existence but he came none-the-less and we adjusted accordingly."

"Look at you, " John said sarcastically, "Acting so paternal."

Sherlock placed his hands on his stomach and began to fiddle with his cast.

"Don't mistake my bluntness for disinterest. I care about him as much as any parent would. He's an extraordinary person, much like myself in that aspect, and it is extremely interesting to see how he develops with genes from two genetically superior parents."

"God help us all," chuckled John. Sherlock smirked in response.

"I'm curious," began Mycroft, "Has he showcased any of the early indicators of intelligence that we did when we were children?"

Sherlock pondered the questioned for a minute or two before responding.

"It's difficult to say. He's behaves much more like you did," he admitted begrudgingly, "Mother always said that you were sociable towards people, unlike me. I didn't speak until I was nearly five," he told the group.

"Ah yes," Mycroft had a nostalgic look across his features, "And when you finally did you made the maid cry after berating her for sleeping with one of the other members of the staff. And of course you were completely articulate and your grammar was perfect."

Lestrade smirked, "You can't do anything normally can you mate."

Sherlock sniffed, "I'll have you know that it is very common for children of high intelligence to start speaking much later than average children, but Nero does speak and is highly sociable. That must be from Irene."

"Nero? You named your kid Nero? Is your family completely inept when it comes to choosing names or what?" asked Donovan.

Sherlock ignored her comment and Mycroft let out a reluctant chuckle.

"Yes I see. A fitting choice if I must say so."

Irene smirked in return, "I thought so as well. Sherlock actually had nothing to do with the name seeing as he spent the hours following the birth in the lavatory."

Sherlock went white, "Never again," he muttered.

John looked at his friend bemusedly, "So what's the significance behind the name choice?"

"Nero was the name of the ancient roman emperor, the last of the Julio-Claudian Dynasty to be exact, who was rumored to have been responsible for the great fire in Rome. The man who burned down an empire in a single night," Sherlock rattled off with a faraway look in his eyes, his hands pulling uncomfortably at the bandages wrapped around his barely covered chest.

Irene followed his movement with her eyes and seemed to fully realize the state of the clothing he wore. She pulled him up off the couch, shushing him as he began to protest, and grabbed her bag from next to the door before marching him down the hallway and into his old bedroom.

John's eyes met those of Lestrade.

"Think they're going for a quick shag?"

Lestrade chuckled, "You know, I'd have answered no straight away before but after the way I've seen Sherlock act today I'd honestly not be surprised."

Mycroft scoffed, "Please. Sherlock may act like a man half his age but he has more decency than that."

Mycroft proved to be right when les than a minute later the two walked back into the room, except Sherlock was now clothed in a plain white t-shirt and pajama pants.

"Aww," mocked Sally, "Is ickle Sherlock all comfy in his jammies now?"

Sherlock glared at her in response.

Irene pushed him back onto the couch, which amused the others, before strutting into the kitchen. She emerged a few moments later with a glass of orange juice and a plate of what looked like left over spaghetti. She set both down on the table in front of Sherlock and gave him a pointed look.

He looked up at her innocently.

"Not hungry."

Irene sighed and rolled her eyes, "Of course you aren't. When was the last time you ate something?"

Sherlock screwed his eyes up in concentration, "Not sure. Maybe a day or two before I left to deal with Moran."

Irene's eyes opened wider, "Sherlock! That was over five days ago! Your mind might be infallible but your body isn't. You need to eat."

"Boring."

"Don't make me force feed you again," she warned, "Neither of us enjoyed that experience last time. Now eat because I would hate for Nero to think his father's been replaced by a skeleton."

Sherlock whined but picked up the fork from his plate and shoved a mouthful of the pasta into his mouth.

"Happy?" he asked, the food still in his mouth.

"Very," answered Irene as she sat down on the arm of the chair next to him, "But don't talk with your mouth full."

John laughed heartily, "Are you sure your child is in the bedroom and not out here Irene?"

Sherlock grunted but kept dutifully shoving forkfuls into his mouth. Irene then wiped some sauce off of his nose, which only made John laugh harder. The others, barring Mycroft of course, joined in as well. Irene smiled from her position next to Sherlock as she ran a hand through his short, inky strands. He drained the cup of juice and then sat back in his seat, fingers drumming on his thick cast. His eyes kept flicking towards the hallway that led to his bedroom every few seconds.

Irene's face softened as she continued to run her fingers along his scalp.

"He won't be long now, another hour or two at most."

Sherlock swallowed and nodded.

John looked at his friend who was clearly anxious to be reunited with his son. He thought that he had seen Sherlock's true nature on occasion when they were alone together, but this was an entirely new side of Sherlock that no one but Irene or his son had bore witness to. Sherlock suddenly sat straight up before collapsing against the couch again. He was giving Irene an accusatory look, shock evident on his face.

"What-what did you d-do?" he stammered over his words as if he was having trouble speaking.

"You know exactly what I did Sherlock," Irene moved his body and his now numb limbs into a more comfortable position so that his head rested on a pillow, "You need to sleep, even if only for a little while. Don't worry, you'll wake up before Nero."

Sherlock looked resigned and he seemed to relax at her last comment.

"Promise?" his speech was even worse now as he slurred the word.

"Yes, now be quiet. Sleep now." And with that Sherlock's eyes closed and his chest fell into deep, rhythmic breaths. Irene looked down at him with a caring, protective look on her face before she picked up the now empty dish and glass and moved back into the kitchen.

Mycroft was looking at her appraisingly as she walked back into the room.

"You drugged his drink I assume?"

"Naturally," replied Irene, "And don't start to criticize my treatment of your baby brother Mycroft. Sometimes he requires a more forceful hand when it comes to his own health."

Mycroft continued to stare at her over his folded hands, "No, no you mistake me. I'm rather…impressed," he admitted, his lip curling back over his teeth, "God knows Sherlock needs someone to force him to take care of body. He's a danger to himself."

Mycroft looked over at his slumbering brother with a look similar to the one Irene had bestowed on him only a few moments earlier.

John interrupted the silence.

"I've never considered sedating him before, he's drugged me of course, but I never thought of it as a viable option," he tone was thoughtful, "I guess I'd always be afraid of how he would react." He chuckled at the thought.

Irene smiled at the doctor, "The first time I forced him to sleep, besides when we first met obviously, he had just come back from a week long trip to Russia to eliminate a few of Moriarty's operatives on the lower rung. He had sort of a manic episode and he wouldn't stop talking for hours," she laughed now fondly, "After he woke up he never even spoke a word about what I'd done to him. He was angry that I had gotten the one-up on him again."

John groaned, "I hadn't even thought about that. You two are going to drive me crazy with your competitiveness. That day you spent in my flat nearly made my head burst trying to keep both of you in line. Not to mention the sexual tension was thick enough to cut with a knife."

Lestrade and the others gaped as Irene smirked.

"Well that's not a problem anymore."

"Yes, I think your kid in the other room is evidence of that." John said wryly.

Lestrade looked nervously at Sherlock's sleeping form before meeting the eyes of Irene.

"Not to ruin the mood or anything, but how's he been? Really." He asked.

Irene frowned, looking down at Sherlock.

"When he first came to me he was very nearly destroyed. Didn't speak for almost a month," she stroked his shoulder tenderly, "He recovered of course as we started to outline his plan for Moriarty's empire, but he still had his bad moments every now and then. Sometimes he'd disappear for months before showing up at my flat on what looked like the brink of death."

Sally gasped and Lestrade still stared at Irene solemnly.

"Any relapses?" he questioned.

Irene sighed in response, as if think carefully thinking about the best way to answer the question. Mycroft's face was angry once again.

"Irene…" he growled.

"Just once," the words burst out of her mouth quickly, "A few weeks after Nero came along. I think he was having trouble…adjusting to the new addition in his life. After he crashed I told him that he would never see his son again if he continued to use."

"And did he acquiesce?" asked Mycroft sharply.

Irene scoffed at him, "Of course he did. Sherlock may not be a typical father figure but it is his son. He wouldn't risk losing contact with him over his petty addiction."

Lestrade chuckled unexpectedly, "Wish we'd known that was all it took before, when strong-armed him into multiple rehabilitation centers."

"Sherlock would do anything for his son Inspector."

John let out a long breath, "It's just still weird to think about sociopathic Sherlock with a kid."

Anderson nodded in agreement, "It's weird for all of us mate."

The room lapsed into silence, Sherlock's deep, even breaths making the only sound.

Mycroft spoke up.

"I suggest we get down to business before the sleeping dragon wakes up."

The others groaned but turned their attention towards Mycroft none-the-less.

For the next forty-five minutes or so Mycroft explained to the group his plan for Sherlock's reintroduction to society and the part they would each play. John whipped up a quick breakfast for everyone and he was more than surprised when Irene volunteered to help him.

They were cleaning up the dishes when they heard a grunt and a thump in the next room followed by Lestrade, Sally, and Anderson's laughter. Irene walked back into the living room to see Sherlock sprawled on the floor between the couch and the coffee table. He tried to get up but his limbs still weren't cooperating fully so he flopped back onto the ground glaring up at Irene.

"I hate you," he muttered.

Irene just smiled, "No, you don't."

Sherlock huffed from his spot on the floor.

"How long have I been out," he asked.

"About an hour now," replied John as he helped his friend to lean his back against the base of the couch. He looked like a grumpy child with a scowl on his face and his arms crossed over his chest. John then noticed that there was blood on his face. He sighed.

"Sit still, you've broken a few of your stitches." Sherlock made no reply as John got up and returned with his med kit.

He sat still and made no comments during John's ministrations. John tied off the last stitch and stood up again when a soft noise reached everyone's ears. They looked up to see Nero standing on wobbly legs in the doorway, his eyes still bleary with sleep and his tiny mouth in the middle of a yawn. The others observed the toddler, getting their first good look at him.

He was clothed in blue footy pajamas that were adorably rumpled and upon closer inspection John saw that they were covered in the different elemental symbols. His black hair was mussed with sleep but John could see that despite the coal black color, the texture was much more like Irene's loose waves than Sherlock's curly mop. His facial structure was a perfect mix of attributes from both parents; Sherlock's jaw, mouth, and cheekbones while his eyebrows and nose were both from Irene. When he opened his eyes wider, John was staring into exact replicas of Sherlock's own bright bluish-gray eyes on a smaller scale.

Said eyes quickly scanned the room before they landed Sherlock's form on the floor. A look of pure delight fell upon the little boy's features before his mouth opened wide and he screeched loudly in his clumsy toddler voice.

"DADDY!"

He propelled himself precariously across the room on his unstable toddler legs. Sherlock, a soft smile on his face now, just managed to get his casted arm out of the way before Nero collided with his chest. Sherlock grunted but wrapped his uninjured arm around the child, holding him close to his chest. Irene smiled at the two before Sherlock lowered Nero down so he was straddling his lap but still facing his father. He held his hand behind his son's back as his eyes raked over every inch of his bouncing form. Nero was babbling unintelligibly at top speed while Sherlock just smiled softly and rubbed the little boy's back in a soothing pattern.

Everyone had a smile on their face as they watched the father and son, even Mycroft. Sally was looking at Sherlock more softly than she ever had before; the sight was just too adorable. Anderson looked as if he didn't know what to make of the situation and Lestrade gazed fondly at the detective and his son. Mycroft just looked to be in shock. John, with a large smile on his face as if he couldn't quite believe the current situation, squatted down next to the two.

Sherlock gave him a quick glance before looking back to his still babbling son. He quieted him before gesturing to John.

"Nero," he began, "This is Doctor John Watson, decorated army doctor in the Afghan War"

Irene rolled her eyes at Sherlock before telling her son, "You can call him Uncle John, okay?"

Nero looked uncertainly at John, his little hands grasping the front of Sherlock's t-shirt before he spoke.

"UncaJun?" he questioned Sherlock.

"Yes Nero, that's close enough." Sherlock paused before narrowing his eyes at his doctor friend, "And he is going to babysitting you very often."

John just smiled even wider and he held a hand to Nero.

"Hi there Nero, it's a pleasure to meet you. You look just like your daddy."

Nero looked down at John's extended hand before firmly grasping one of his fingers and giving it a firm shake. John laughed loudly and Sally cooed in the background as Nero hid his face in his father's chest. Sherlock stroked his hair.

"He's adorable," Sally remarked.

Sherlock groaned.

"Please don't call him that, he's not some simple child to be ogled at. Look, he's got elements on his pajamas!"

Sally just laughed and Nero perked up at the word element. He looked at Sherlock and pointed to a large K on his sleeve.

"Kiptawn?" he asked his father.

Sherlock grinned, "Yes Nero, that is the symbol for Krypton, one of the noble gasses found on the right side of the periodic table of elements created by Mendeleev. It is very unreactive when it encounters other elements. Now tell me, what is Daddy's favorite element?"

Nero scrunched up his face adorably in concentration before replying.

"Ruvefordum?" he asked, still grasping his father's shirt.

"Ha! Yes!" exclaimed Sherlock, "Very good Nero my favorite element is Rutherfordium, atomic number 104, with a half life of roughly 1.3 hours."

Nero clapped his hands together and laughed.

Lestrade looked to be somewhere between amusement and disbelief.

"Only your kid would know the periodic table before he turned three Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled triumphantly while Irene rolled her eyes at his behavior running a hand affectionately over his hair.

"Yes, well he does insist on hanging a large poster of it across from Nero's cot and going over it every night before he goes to sleep," John chuckled at that, "Although he does get very upset when Nero shows more interest in his dinosaur picture books."

Sherlock grunted.

"Dinosaurs have been dead for millions of years, they're irrelevant and hold no significance today."

Mycroft looked as though he agreed whole-heartedly with Sherlock's statement but a slight grin came across his face before he spoke.

"Oh I don't know Sherlock, most agree that pirates are also irrelevant in today's world but that didn't stop you from wanting to be one as a child."

The others laughed as Sherlock sniffed, "Well being a pirate is still technically a plausible option, but there is no way that my son will wake up tomorrow as a Pterodactyl."

John snorted as Nero made a loud roaring sound, which he assumed to be his approximation of a dinosaur noise.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but still smiled fondly at his son. He stood up, his legs now functioning, pulling Nero with him and sat down next to Irene on the couch. Nero adjusted himself so that he was sitting with his back against his father's chest. He played with Sherlock's fingers and his father put up no protest. John smiled at the sight of his friend with his child in his lap, his little feet swinging back and forth. Irene got up and rummaged through her large bag before pulling out a coloring book and a box of markers, which she placed on Nero's lap. Nero flipped open the book immediately and began to excitedly color a large diagram of a carbohydrate molecule, Sherlock watching him with interest.

"Mother will be ecstatic Sherlock," Mycroft said as he watched the toddler color with interest, "She had long given up hope of either of us giving her grandchildren."

Sherlock grimaced, still not taking his eyes off of his son.

"Let's not burden her with the information just yet then shall we? I don't want my son to be smothered too early on."

"Getting protective now are we brother?" Mycroft smirked, but the look held no contempt or mockery.

"Of course," replied Sherlock without missing a beat, "You know what the woman's like."

"Yes, well, it would be best to let her know soon, before she hears it from someone else."

"Meaning you?"

"Precisely."

Sherlock sighed and grumbled to himself.

Nero stopped coloring as he finally noticed the cast on his father's arm. Sherlock helped him lift it up and set it on his son's lap before realizing what Nero wanted to do.

"Ugh, Nero," moaned Sherlock pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed, "That's a pointless sentimental gesture that means nothing for the healing process. It's foolish."

Nero had started to use his markers to color on Sherlock's cast, much to the enjoyment of the others, and even though Sherlock continued to make remarks about the uselessness of the action he didn't pull his arm away or move to stop his son. Lestrade chuckled at the audacity of the kid. No one else would dare submit Sherlock Holmes to something so trivial, yet here the man was submitting completely to the wishes of his child. Maybe fatherhood would soften the sociopath.

They would have to wait and see.


End file.
